The District Sleeps Alone Tonight
by ryeden
Summary: Johnlock oneshot. "Have you ever felt lonely?" John's voice cuts through the meaningless background chatter like a knife, and all he can think is – I'm open, I'm letting you in, slice into me with your comments like you always do – but Sherlock just looks at him. John thinks he looks a little more human.


_A/N: Just short little scenes I had in my mind. I had to write it._

* * *

Sherlock ignores it.

He deletes it from the hard drive.

He deletes the many faces of John Watson from his mind; tries to purposely misremember the exact way John twirls his finger when he adds sugar to Sherlock's cup of coffee (upturned, towards the future and optimistic).

But it just comes back.

John is everything Sherlock isn't.

He's everything Sherlock tries to tell himself he doesn't need.

* * *

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

* * *

John and Sherlock are in their shared apartment, and John's typing away at his laptop with the constant _taptaptap_ of the keys as the rain pours down over the windows.

It's calm and Sherlock is casually playing the violin - or creating another piece, John isn't quite sure – with the graceful flicks of his long fingers.

"I wasn't joking, you know," Sherlock's deep voice echoes throughout the room, accompanying the sad sound of the violin.

John doesn't respond.

He just continues typing away at a laptop the infuriating man behind him can easily hack into, because apparently people are stupid and he's too predictable.

Sherlock frowns.

It's only slightly, the way a woman's smile might fall a tiny bit when she becomes disappointed.

John thinks he should stop the teasing.

"Joking about what?"

Like Sherlock's said before; give a genius an audience and he'll milk it for all it's worth.

Sherlock didn't take the bait this time; just gave John this disappointed look that says, "I know what you're doing".

John pretends it doesn't bother him.

He pretends things haven't changed.

* * *

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

* * *

They're sitting in a café filled with young teenage couples. They look a little out of place; John with his grey hair and Sherlock with his upturned collar.

They hear the whispers.

John insists it isn't a date.

"Have you ever felt lonely?"

John's voice cuts through the meaningless background chatter like a knife, and all he can think is – _I'm open, I'm letting you in, slice into me with your comments_ _like you always do_ – but Sherlock just looks at him.

John just looks back, and in that moment he thinks that Sherlock looks a little more human.

(Like he could see the bags under his eyes; as if Sherlock's slumped stature was out of weariness rather than a lack of good posture.)

Sherlock looks tired.

That's it.

Just tired.

(The word lonely tears at John's mind. He tells himself that they're both happy.)

Sherlock never answered his question.

He just left the café with his newspaper, not even bothering to call a cab.

He walked the entire way back to the closest thing he calls home; shared with the closest thing he calls a friend.

(Though sometimes Sherlock thinks there's something more, until it disappears, fleeting and elusive.)

* * *

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

* * *

John (with startling clarity) remembers the beginning of the bombs.

_When it struck near their shared apartment, he had experienced only panic._

_There was panic and fear, and a bitter taste in his mouth as if he'd bit his tongue._

_When he remembered Sherlock was there, he ran the entire way back._

_And he didn't stop._

* * *

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

* * *

John sounds so much livelier over the phone.

You can't see the serious lines over his forehead; you can't notice the set lines of his lips.

Sherlock doesn't know which he prefers.

John asked him once – **actually asked him** – what he would do if John was the hostage, crying into the phone with a laser pointed to his head, knowing that if he made one mistake the bombs strapped to his chest would explode.

Sherlock didn't answer. The thought alone was enough to tear away inside of him, to make him think – _what if it was John, what would I do, would it be any different_ – until he stops his paranoia.

John is here.

Where Sherlock is.

John is home.

* * *

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

* * *

Sherlock acknowledges it.

He draws it from the hard drive.

He remembers the many faces of John Watson in his mind; tries to purposely remember the exact way John twirls his finger when he adds sugar to Sherlock's cup of coffee (upturned, towards the future and optimistic).

And it works; it comes back.

John is everything Sherlock isn't.

He's everything Sherlock tries to tell himself he doesn't need.

He's everything Sherlock knows he needs.


End file.
